


The Cottage, the Picnic

by Dragonsquill (dragonsquill)



Series: The Cottage, the Husbands [10]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Fluff, Humor, Other, shameless fluff, terrible puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-29
Packaged: 2020-11-01 10:24:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20813582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/pseuds/Dragonsquill
Summary: Shameless Fluff Continues: They finally go on that picnic Aziraphale mentioned back in the 60's. An important topic is discussed. There is a brief appearance by a group of growing up girl guides who tease angels and hang out with a certain demon for board games and education in cheating at cards.





	The Cottage, the Picnic

**Author's Note:**

> Two days in and I realized a little chunk was missing somehow, and it was one I liked. Sob! Fixed now...

Crowley’s young friends (stalkers, he insisted, pestering him due to poor parental supervision, even as he provided wholesome games and snacks for their visits) were just taking their leave when the demon spotted Aziraphale in the garden, peacefully reading under a tree that sorely needed a talking-to for being insufficiently leafy to protect lazing angels from the sun. 

“Bye, Crowley!” Jean called. She was getting taller, and plumper, and Crowley had certain concerns about a couple of young people who were taking an interest. She was clearly too young for that nonsense. Maybe when she had a couple of centuries under her belt, but certainly not at twelve. Heather, Snub Nose, and Curly followed on her heels like unusually large ducklings. At the sight of Aziraphale, the quartet let out a sing-song, “Bye, Mr. Aziraphale Fell!” that made the angel roll his eyes and Crowley smirk with pride.

“Really,” Aziraphale chided as Crowley slunk over, “you might teach them some better manners.”

“No fun in that,” Crowley answered, nearly tripping on a large hamper beside the angel’s feet. He turned the bobble into an excuse to kiss the golden-white curls in friendly greeting. “Besides,” he motioned to himself, in all black (of course) with a splash of purple for flavor, “creature of evil, remember?”

Aziraphale snorted delicately. He was the only person Crowley knew who could snort delicately. “Of course, my dear,” he answered fondly. “You’re an absolute hellion.”

“Exactly.” Crowley eyed the large basket, which was situated in such a way that he couldn’t join Aziraphale on the garden bench without stepping (leaping) over it. He gave it a suspicious poke in the side with one scaled toe. “If there’s a baby in there,” he said, “I’m moving to Antarctica.”

“You know people are living there now,” his pedantic nerd replied, but then, “No. Ah. No baby.” The book was suddenly elsewhere, and Aziraphale tangled and untangled his fingers, not quite looking Crowley in the eye. A million little alarms went off in the demon’s head – it had been months since Aziraphale’s pre-Apocawhat behavior had popped up so clearly.

But, Crowley reminded himself over the high pitched ringing, he was an optimist. No reason to panic. All was well.

(He neglected to inform his human heart of this, and it proceeded to make a valiant attempt at climbing up his throat and out his mouth to freedom.)

“What’s up, Angel?” Crowley tried to lean nonchalantly against a tree, only it wasn’t a tree but a bush, and he fell half into it. An entire herd (pride? Murder? No, that was ravens..or crows? Colony? He didn’t recall) of tiny vampire bats took off in the confines his rather snakey ribcage. 

Aziraphale reached out a hand, placating. His smile was endearingly shy. “I’ve packed a…” he looked down at the basket. “A picnic. If you’d like to join me?”

Crowley, quite against his usual nature and well-deserved reputation, blinked. His voice briefly deserted him, exactly as it had two years into their time as nanny and gardener, when Aziraphale had breezily suggested the Ritz for lunch on their day off. 

_Oh don’t look so disappointed!_

He only managed half the word. “Nic?” he squeaked, looking down at the hamper. It was a good size for a baby that needed a bit of wiggle room, but rather large for two immortal beings sharing a meal. It was only when he lifted his gaze back to Aziraphale that he noticed the blanket – black and red tartan, bless, ah, well him-folded neatly in Aziraphale’s lap. He was also wearing a brand new soft blue jumper vest over a cream colored shirt – terribly daring, if you were Aziraphale. Which. He was. Aziraphale. 

_Oh._

“Yes!” he yelped suavely when Aziraphale started to look a bit nervous at the delay. “Yeah, right? A picnic. Sounds grand, let’s go.” He grabbed for the hamper and lifted it. He was immediately glad for demonic strength, as it felt like the angel had packed most of the food in Britain.

Aziraphale _beamed_ at him. Crowley could swear he saw the old halo for a moment, and was very pleased he’d been wearing his sunglasses for the girls’ visit. “Excellent!” he said, clapping his hands in the way that was usually endearing but annoying as hell (okay, not that annoying; Crowley had, of course, spent a great deal of time in Hell, and knew exactly how annoying it was) at 6 a.m. “It’s just a short walk.” He stood, picking up the blanket and folding it neatly over his arms. “Shall we?”

The angel was practically vibrating. 

It was still pretty damn suspicious, but maybe in a good way?

_You’d think after six thousand years I could read him better_, Crowley grumbled internally, even as his face settled into its usual lovesick expression whenever Aziraphale did something remotely romantic. It was practically his default these days, though he hadn’t a clue. He thought he looked the same as always: a little majestic, separated from the riff raff with an air of coolness.

Aziraphale chattered as they walked, and Crowley drank in every word. He loved listening to his angel chatter, and his angel loved chattering, so it worked out wonderfully. He was a bit surprised to find Aziraphale was leading him not to the water, but away from it, down a path in the woods. Neither of them was much for exploring forests these days, preferring places without stickers and dirt and wild animals that were rightfully terrified of ethereal beings on the prowl, so Crowley hadn’t come this way in the two years they’d lived in South Downs. 

“You’re luring me out here to murder me, aren’t you?” he teased when Aziraphale paused for a breath and to consider a fork in the path. “No one will ever know. It’s Tall Red Demon Hood and the dastardly Angel.”

Aziraphale shot him one of those Looks that could melt glass. Crowley grinned and added it to his collection. He loved when Aziraphale got bitchy, and he loved that the angel was so comfortable with him to let that side out on a regular basis.

“That,” Aziraphale informed him, “was a sin against the English language.”

“Doin’ my job then,” Crowley drawled, despite the fact that he was essentially retired. He tried again: “The Hamper of Angellito?”

That one was so terrible that Aziraphale refused to even look at him. Besides, the angel had mixed feelings when it came to “that American Poe fellow,” even more than a century and a half later.

They took the right fork.

They walked perhaps a mile before stepping clear of the woods. There, in what was currently a sheep pasture (of course), stood the ruins of a small castle. The roof was gone and the walls crumbling, but Crowley couldn’t help but think of the days he’d spent as the Black Knight, spreading evil and killing off a knight or three. Not all of Arthur’s knights had been of Aziraphale’s caliber, and the ones who saw women not as creatures to be honored but as slaves to be used had found themselves up against the Black Knight in single combat.

(It was a long-kept secret between them that Crowley had been a terrible swordsman, and only Aziraphale’s exasperated tutelage, combined with some minor miracles, had allowed him to win. Fine. He’d been a creator, not a warrior!)

“Excellent!” Aziraphale’s cheeks were a bit pink from the walk, and he bounced once on his toes before striding forward like a man on a mission. Crowley followed him, curious. “This way, my love,” the angel said, and bowed gallantly beside the wall where there’d once been a door, but now only an arch remained.

Crowley batted his lashes. He’d taken off the sunglasses during the walk, because Aziraphale shot them nasty looks when they were alone. “What a _gentleman_,” he cooed in the voice of the woman who had, in Rome thousands of years before, come up with creative punishments for men who liked little boys. Then he swept past, for all the word as if a gown trailed behind him.

“Oh,” he said, aloud this time. He rested a hand over his heart as he looked around.

Inside the crumbling walls was such a riot of wildflowers that Crowley knew immediately that an angelic miracle was involved. They bloomed everywhere, with bees buzzing calmly among them, and one clear spot of soft grass in the center that looked just about right for two beings and an overly large picnic hamper. 

Aziraphale shook out the blanket before gently pulling the hamper from Crowley’s hands. “Have a seat,” he said. “There’s chilled wine, of course, and I ordered…” he set the basket down with a huff, “rather too much food, I fancy.”

Crowley couldn’t help himself. He stepped forward, breathing in the scent of flowers and grass and Aziraphale’s cologne, cupped the angel’s face in his hands, and kissed him. Aziraphale’s answering murmur was very encouraging.

“Show me this overpacked picnic of yours,” Crowley said, and he stripped out of his suit coat to sit on the blanket in his purple and black shirtsleeves.

Aziraphale did. He pulled out container after container – each with only a small portion, but an unreasonable amount of options. Crowley was highly suspicious that even with the size of the hamper, Aziraphale was pulling Crowley’s favorite Mary Poppins trick. Crowley peeked in one – and couldn’t hide a smile. “Angel…is this _moretum_?”

Aziraphale looked over and peered into the container. “Oh, yes.” He beamed. “I remember you liked it. We had some with the oysters, you remember?”

Crowley’s voice came out soft. “Of course I do,” he said, and began helping to set everything out. There were proper plates, of course, and linen napkins, and silverware, wine and wine glasses. There were also little tastes of food from all over Europe and Asia, from Britain, from Rome and the Middle East, tidbits from Jerusalem and Wales. It was a veritable history of their friendship in food, and all of it delicious.

Crowley suspected a great deal of travel and the careful application of miracles were the only way this particular mix of foods could exist. Aziraphale rarely cooked, and surely not anything like this.

“One more thing,” the angel said as Crowley, well-stuffed and pleased with the rambling conversations born of shared memories, was preparing to lay back and take a post-dinner nap. 

“Grnn,” Crowley said disagreeably, but Aziraphale only laughed at him, all gentle affection and sunshine and who could disappoint that face? He sat up properly and stifled a yawn.

Aziraphale reached into the hamper and pulled out an apple, mottled red and yellow and looking delicious.

“One of Adam’s,” he said as he also pulled out a small knife and began to peel the fruit. He could do it in one smooth curl of skin, which made Crowley a bit (ridiculously) jealous every time. “One of the ones he steals. He says stolen apples are the best apples.” He peeked at Crowley from under pale lashes. “I’m very fond of them.”

“I remember when you were scared of eating them.”

Aziraphale laughed. “I remember when the humans convinced you tomatoes were poisonous,” he shot back. The knife moved smoothly. “My happiest memories are all with you, my dear.”

Crowley didn’t blush because he was a demon, dammit, but he did make a few interesting noises that he couldn’t quite hold in.

“And I believe,” Aziraphale continued serenely, expertly ignoring the ngks and unns, “that my future happiness will be with you as well.” 

Crowley nearly melted. Something was up. Something big. “Yeah?”

“Yes. And naturally we’re not human,” Aziraphale carefully cut a slice and held it out on the knife for Crowley to take, “but I do so love some of their quaint ways of doing things. So I thought, perhaps, if you are amenable…” His voice trailed off for a moment, and his eyes were a bit wide.

Crowley ate his slice of apple to keep himself from babbling.

_Twelve is going to love this,_ he thought inanely.

“I thought we might have a little…ceremony. And exchange rings. The human way.”

“You mean _get married_?!” Crowley blurted, two bits of apple escaping in his excitement. 

“Well, as we don’t, necessarily, legally exist, I don’t think it would be binding in the way it is for mortals, but-”

“Yes.” Crowley laughed, loud and bright, and if he’d seen himself in that moment, he would know everything he needed to about why his angel fell in love with him. It was the smile on the wall of Eden, _You did what?_; and the gentle smile on the bench the day after Adam was born, _Do you really believe that?_; and the wild grin when Aziraphale told him _I made Michael miracle me a towel_. “Yeah, yes, Angel, let’s get married.”

“Oh good,” Aziraphale said on a relieved sigh. “I was a _bit_ nervous, you know, and-”

“Then you’re the smartest idiot I know,” Crowley told him, still laughing. He tugged Aziraphale close, and the kiss smelled like apples and a great garden and two strangers who had no idea that thousands of years would give way to _this._

There was a ring, simple white gold paired with a natural black diamond ring in a filigreed white and yellow gold setting. They fit together neatly, but Aziraphale tsked and said the plain band was “for later.” He tucked it in his pocket as if it was a guarded vault and tried to give Crowley a severe look.

But Crowley missed it, too busy turning his hand in the sunlight, feeling like every romantic cliché ever written, but loving every minute of it. 

“I’m wearing black,” Crowley said suddenly.

“Naturally, darling.” Aziraphale’s smile was serene. Crowley decided it was an excellent time for using Aziraphale as a pillow.

“Which means you’re wearing white.”

“As you say.”

“And we’re inviting some people.”

“I’d thought we might.”

“We’ll make a list.”

Aziraphale’s chest moved under Crowley’s hands, and the foolish demon fell in love all over again. “We will,” he agreed, and pressed his lips to Crowley’s palm, a promise and benediction.


End file.
